and hosts of saintly lips sang songs suspended in the breeze.
Prodigals one day regret their foolish fall from grace,
while sweet expressions briefly paint the most suppressive face.
Mighty trees make music on their slow determined climb,
mocking mans' futility, our mindless march through time.
The waves of every ocean join to crash upon the sand,
while soldiers blindly follow every officers' command.
A runner's starting steps are vindicated by his last,
and bright potential futures can be squandered by their past.
Because a thousand golden ghosts can haunt a thousand gloomy graves,
while captains on their silver ships must stand and face the waves.
For nothing here created will forever be the same,
and everything that's wild can in time be rendered tame.
The chain that binds the captive's feet will one day turn to rust,
and this tranquil world's a raging fire beneath it's fragile crust.
Warm rain that falls in summer is the winter's fiercest ice,
as fortunes made with toil can be lost on rolling dice.
The lips that sang the morning's praise will grace tomorrow's dust,
and souls who once betray you may cross oceans for your trust.
Not hopes, nor fears, nor fallen tears, nor footprints in the sand,
will endure the test of time, but by God's grace we stand.
(c) A.s.G.
